The room was exactly as I had left it four years ago.

Bare, cold, and tucked away in the farthest corner of the second floor, right next to the servant's quarters.

I didn't have much to pack. A few faded dresses, a worn coat, and the tarnished silver locket my mother had given me when I was a child.

That was before she decided Candice was the daughter she truly wanted.

I tossed the meager belongings into a small duffel bag.

Zip.

That was it. My entire existence in the Mercer household, reduced to a single bag.

I paused, looking at the sterile walls. A lingering ache throbbed in my chest.

It wasn't sorrow for leaving.

It was the final, suffocating confirmation that to Richard and Evelyn Mercer, I wasn't a daughter. I was a tool. Disposable trash meant to be used and discarded when convenient.

The terrified eighteen-year-old girl who had cried and begged for her parents' love four years ago was officially dead.

Good riddance.

I slung the duffel over my shoulder and walked down the dimly lit hallway.

The house was quiet, the staff already dismissed for the evening. As I approached the grand staircase, a sliver of yellow light spilled across the Persian runner.

It came from the cracked door of my father's mahogany-paneled study.

I wouldn't have stopped if I hadn't heard my name.

“…Lorraine is stupid enough to just keep her head down.”

It was Ashton.

His voice lacked the arrogant, booming confidence he had displayed in the living room earlier. Now, he sounded petulant. Bitter.

I pressed my back against the cold wall, inching closer to the crack in the door.

“You worry too much, Ash,” Candice's voice drifted out.

Gone was the fragile, breathy tone she used to manipulate my parents. Her voice was sharp, calculating, and dripping with venom.

“She’s a country bumpkin. She doesn't know how the capital works.”

“I don't care about her,” Ashton hissed.

The sound of his heavy footsteps pacing the room reached my ears.

“I care about Brandon! The man is a half-dead cripple. He’s a burned, paralyzed freak with six months to live, yet the Sinclair elders still refuse to officially name me the heir!”

He let out a frustrated breath.

“They're holding out hope for a miracle. It's humiliating!”

“Then we don't wait six months,” Candice said smoothly.

The sound of liquid pouring into a crystal glass echoed in the quiet study.

“We speed up the inevitable.”

Ashton stopped pacing. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying his daily medication is heavily regulated, but accidents happen, darling,” Candice murmured.

“A slight dosage increase in his pain management IV. His heart is already weak. He goes to sleep one night and simply doesn't wake up.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Then, Ashton let out a low, dark chuckle.

“If he dies suddenly, the Sinclair elders will demand an investigation. They’ll tear the estate apart looking for someone to blame.”

“Let them,” Candice laughed softly.

“Who do you think they'll blame, Ash? The loyal, grieving younger brother? Or the disgraced, bitter new bride who was forced into his bed against her will?”

The sheer cruelty of the plan hit me like a physical blow.

“That's why you pushed so hard for her to take your place,” Ashton realized, awe in his voice.

“You didn't just want to avoid marrying him. You needed a scapegoat.”

“Exactly,” Candice purred.

“When Brandon dies, Lorraine takes the fall. She goes to prison for murder. You inherit the Sinclair empire, and I become the Matriarch. It’s the perfect arrangement.”

In the shadows of the hallway, my blood ran to absolute ice.

They weren't just throwing me to the wolves. They were actively tying the meat around my neck.

Four years ago, Candice had framed me for stealing company secrets, resulting in my exile.

Now, she was planning to frame me for murder.

I didn't gasp.

I didn't cry.

My hands didn't even shake.

Coldly, methodically, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone.

I opened the voice memo app, hit the red record button, and held it near the crack of the door.

I let it run for another minute, capturing Ashton and Candice discussing the exact logistics of bribing one of Brandon’s private nurses.

Once I had enough, I stopped the recording.

I saved the file to a secure cloud server, and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

I now held the key to their absolute destruction.

It was time to go. I took a step back, turning toward the stairs.

Creaaak.

The old wooden floorboard beneath the Persian runner groaned loudly under my heel.

The voices in the study stopped instantly.

“Did you hear that?” Ashton whispered sharply.

“Hide,” Candice ordered.

The study door swung open.

I didn't run.

I stood perfectly still at the top of the stairs, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, my expression an impenetrable mask of calm.

Candice stepped out into the hall.

When she saw it was me, the brief flash of panic in her eyes vanished, instantly replaced by a smug, triumphant smirk.

She glanced back into the study to ensure Ashton was out of sight, then pulled the door shut behind her, stepping into my personal space.

She didn't bother putting on her sweet, sickly act. There was no one around to perform for.

“Leaving so soon, Sister?” Candice whispered.

Her eyes raked over my cheap clothes with utter disgust.

“I was just packing.”

“Good,” she sneered, stepping closer until I could smell her cloying, expensive perfume.

“Because you don't belong here. You never did.”

She tilted her head, her eyes filled with dark amusement.

“I have your parents. I have your fiancé. I have your life, Lorraine. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.”

I looked down at her.

She was shorter than me, petty, and rotten to her very core.

“Are you done?” I asked flatly.

Candice’s smirk widened into a malicious, teeth-baring grin. She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear.

“Good luck surviving your wedding night with that monster,” she whispered, her voice dripping with poison.

“Try not to die too quickly. It would ruin all my plans.”

I didn't flinch.

I didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

I just looked at her, my eyes entirely dead, reflecting nothing but the abyss she was about to fall into.

“Goodbye, Candice,” I said smoothly.

I turned on my heel and walked down the grand staircase.

The car ride was suffocatingly quiet.

When the vehicle finally stopped, I looked out the window.

The Sinclair manor sat in the dead of night, wrapped in heavy fog. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a fortress.

Rows of men in black suits stood by the iron gates.

No one welcomed me. No one offered a warm greeting.

An elderly butler with a cold face led me straight up the stairs.

“The young master's temper has been... unstable,” the butler warned, not looking back. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not turn on the main lights.”

He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall.

He opened it, gestured for me to step inside, and didn't follow.

I stepped into the pitch-black room.

Click.

The heavy door shut behind me, and the lock turned from the outside.

I stood in the dark, my duffel bag gripped tightly in my hand.

The air in the room was freezing. It smelled faintly of expensive cedar and something sharp, like sterilized metal.

I braced myself.

I expected the heavy breathing of a dying man. I expected the squeak of a wheelchair, or the angry shout of a disfigured invalid.

Instead, I heard steady, even footsteps.

They were coming from the shadows near the balcony.

The moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, cutting across the dark room.

A figure stepped into the pale light.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was towering, easily over six feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block out the light.

He wasn't in a wheelchair.

He wasn't covered in burns.

His face was breathtakingly handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes as cold as a frozen lake.

He stood firmly on his own two feet.

It was Brandon Sinclair.

Before I could even process the lie, he moved.

He was impossibly fast.

In a split second, I was slammed hard against the wall.

The duffel bag dropped from my hand.

A large, calloused hand gripped my jaw, pinning me in place. His fingers pressed dangerously close to my throat.

“Who sent you?”

His voice was a low, murderous rumble. It vibrated against my skin.

“Did Ashton finally run out of patience? Or did the elders decide to speed up my funeral?”

He leaned in closer. The sheer force of his presence was suffocating.

“Speak. Before I snap your neck.”

He was testing me.

He thought I was just another spy, another assassin sent by his greedy relatives to finish the job.

Anyone else would have cried.

Anyone else would have begged for their life, trembling under the weight of his killing intent.

But I had already died four years ago in those mountains. I had nothing left to fear.

I didn't flinch.

I didn't scream.

I looked the terrifying billionaire dead in the eye.

“If I were here to kill you, Mr. Sinclair,” I said, my voice completely steady, “I wouldn't have come through the front door.”

His eyes narrowed. The grip on my jaw tightened slightly.

I didn't break eye contact. Slowly, deliberately, I reached into my coat pocket.

Brandon’s muscles tensed, ready to strike if I pulled a weapon.

Instead, I pulled out my phone.

I unlocked the screen, opened the voice memo I had saved an hour ago, and hit play.

The quiet room was suddenly filled with Ashton’s bitter voice.

“I care about Brandon! The man is a half-dead cripple...”

Then, Candice’s smooth, venomous tone followed.

“A slight dosage increase in his pain management IV... He goes to sleep one night and simply doesn't wake up.”

I watched Brandon’s face as the recording played.

He didn't look surprised.

But the cold, murderous intent in his eyes slowly shifted into something else.

When the recording ended, the room fell into a heavy silence.

Brandon stared at me for a long moment.

Then, he let out a low, dark chuckle.

He released my jaw and took a step back, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“So,” Brandon said, his tone carrying a hint of dark amusement. “The sacrificial lamb has teeth.”

I rubbed my jaw, keeping my posture perfectly straight.

“The car accident,” I said calmly. “The paralysis. The six months to live. It was all a lie.”

“A necessary one,” he replied, walking over to a leather armchair and sitting down.

“The Sinclair empire is rotting from the inside. Traitors in the board, greedy relatives waiting for me to fall. I needed to flush them out.”

He looked at me, his gaze sharp and calculating.

“And they sent you. The disgraced Mercer daughter. The perfect scapegoat.”

“They think I'm stupid,” I said. “They think I'll quietly take the fall when they finally make their move against you.”

“And what do you want?” Brandon asked.

I walked toward him, stopping just a few feet away.

“A partnership.”

I laid it out plainly.

“I will play the role of the terrified, obedient wife. I will keep Ashton and Candice completely blind to the truth. I will be your eyes and ears inside this house.”

Brandon tilted his head, listening.

“In return,” I continued, my voice dropping to a cold, hard pitch. “You will protect me. And you will give me the power and resources I need to completely destroy the Mercer family.”

I didn't want a quiet escape.

I didn't want to just walk away and let karma do the work.

I wanted to be the karma.

Brandon looked at me.

For the first time, a genuine smile touched his lips. It was a dangerous, predatory smile.

He was fascinated.

He had expected a weeping, useless girl begging for mercy. Instead, he got a woman just as ruthless as he was.

Brandon stood up.

He reached out his hand.

“Deal, Mrs. Sinclair.”

The Sinclair Matriarch’s welcome dinner was set to be a grand affair.

The entire capital knew about this marriage.

Ashton, Candice, Richard, and Evelyn were already seated in the main hall. They were eagerly waiting for me to shuffle into the room, covered in bruises, my spirit completely broken by Brandon’s supposedly violent temper.

Because Brandon was “too weak and unstable” to leave his room, I was told to attend the banquet alone.

I walked down the grand staircase wearing a flawless emerald silk gown, my posture perfectly straight, my expression calm and untouchable.

I saw Ashton’s hand tighten around his wine glass.

Candice’s sweet smile froze on her face, a flash of pure jealousy crossing her eyes.

Desperate to reclaim the spotlight, Candice quickly stood up.

She held a velvet box in her hands and walked toward the Sinclair Matriarch with a soft, practiced smile.

“Grandma Sinclair,” she said smoothly. “To celebrate this union, I brought a special gift.”

She opened the box.

Inside sat a diamond-cut bottle.

It was “Elixir,” supposedly the world's most exclusive and expensive fragrance.

“I know my sister Lorraine is used to cheap, village-level things,” she sighed. “I wanted to ensure the Sinclairs experience true luxury today, to make up for her lack of refinement.”

Everyone’s eyes settled on me, waiting to watch the chaos, convinced I would feel ashamed. Instead, I let out a light laugh.

I walked over, picked up the diamond-cut bottle, and unstoppered it.

I took one sniff.

Then I dropped it back into the box with a dull thud.

“True luxury?” I asked, my voice even. “This is synthetic linalool mixed with artificial musk. The ethanol base is already separating.”

I looked straight at Candice. “It's a cheap, black-market counterfeit.”

“How dare you!” Ashton slammed his hand on the table, his face turning dark. “Apologize to Candice right now!”

I calmly opened my clutch, pulled out a tiny, unmarked glass vial, and handed it to Mr. Sterling, the Sinclair family’s legendary luxury appraiser who sat nearby.

Mr. Sterling frowned, but he opened the vial.

“This…” His voice trembled in the quiet room. “The botanical purity… This is the unreleased master formula!”

Suffocating silence fell over the entire banquet hall.

No one spoke.

The guests turned their eyes toward Candice, their looks shifting from praise to barely hidden disgust.

Gifting a fake to the Sinclair Matriarch was an unforgivable insult.

Ashton stood frozen, utterly humiliated in front of the capital's elite.

I retrieved my vial, turned to Ashton, and flashed a chilling smile.

“Teach your fiancée how to shop, little brother-in-law,” I said lightly. “It's embarrassing.”

I didn't want to stay in that room any longer, so I turned and stepped out onto the darkened stone terrace.

Moments later, the heavy glass doors were pushed open violently.

Candice stormed out.

“You bitch!” she screamed.

Before I could even speak, she grabbed a heavy crystal champagne flute from the patio table.

She smashed the rim hard against the stone railing.

The glass shattered, leaving a jagged, sharp edge.

Without a second of hesitation, she lunged straight at me.

I twisted my body instinctively to dodge.

But I wasn't fast enough.

The jagged crystal sliced brutally into my side.

It tore through the expensive emerald silk and bit deep into my flesh.

A sharp, breathless agony ripped through me in an instant.

Warm blood poured down my waist, soaking my dress.

Before I could even react to the pain, Candice dropped the bloody glass.

She threw herself onto the hard stone floor, scraping her own knees, and burst into hysterical, loud sobs.

Right on cue, the terrace doors swung open again.

Ashton, Richard, and Evelyn rushed out into the night air.

“Mom! Dad!” Candice cried out, curling into a pitiful ball. “I came out to apologize, and she attacked me! She tried to kill me!”

In the dim moonlight, my dark emerald gown perfectly hid the massive amount of blood I was losing.

But the bloody broken glass lay right there on the floor.

Evelyn dropped to the ground right away, pulling Candice into her arms, glaring at me with pure hate.

Richard marched straight toward me.

A heavy slap landed hard across my face.

My head turned to the side, my ears ringing, the taste of copper filling my mouth.

“You vicious, jealous monster!” Richard yelled, his face twisted with anger.

I slowly turned my head back.

I pressed my hand to my side. My fingers were completely wet with my own blood.

“She stabbed me, Father,” I said.

My voice was tight from the tearing pain in my ribs, but I forced it to stay steady.

“Don't call him that!” Evelyn shrieked from the floor. “Candice is our true daughter! We should have left you to rot and die in those mountains!”

In that moment, the last fragile thread in my chest finally snapped.

I had always believed that if I just proved myself, they would eventually see me.

I believed they were capable of being decent parents.

But now I finally understood that it was nothing more than my own fantasy.

The small hope I still held that they might care broke apart right then.

Staring at the faces I knew so well yet felt so distant from, a wave of ridiculousness rushed through me.

I felt nothing at all.

No hurt, no anger, no need to explain.

“Then from this moment on, you no longer have a daughter.”

I didn't wait for their reply.

I turned my back and walked down the stone steps, stepping into the pitch-black gardens.

I kept my back perfectly straight.

But once the shadows of the hedge maze swallowed me and I was out of their sight, the adrenaline suddenly faded.

My knees buckled.

I pressed my hand hard against my side, but the warm, sticky wetness kept flowing, dripping down my leg and pooling in my shoes.

The cut was too deep.

My head spun, and my breathing grew shallow as the severe blood loss took over.

I pulled out my phone with shaking fingers and ordered a private car to the back gates.

I barely managed to stumble out of the estate and fall into the back seat of the waiting car.

“City General Hospital,” I choked out to the driver, my fingers gripping my violently bleeding wound.

“Hurry.”

Just as the car sped forward, my vision tunneled, and everything faded into absolute blackness.